


To The Ends Of The Earth

by skyline



Category: South Park
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flashbacks, Kyle and Stan were besties and now they aren't, M/M, No one knows why, Weddings, definitely not for angst reasons nosiree, fake wedding date, this really isn't that deep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26035666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: “This.” Token points at him and Stan. “You two.”Stan’s horror is palpable, and Kyle…well. Kyle’s got two choices. Distance himself from the inherent accusation, or lean in.He leans in. Maybe a little too far.Wrapping his arm around Stan’s shoulders, he turns up the wattage on his fake-ass smile one hundred fold.“You caught us out! We’re in love!” Kyle announces. Stan stands rigid in his embrace, rage emanating off his body in actual waves, but he doesn’t contradict what Kyle’s saying. “Like, passionately.”“Great,” Token replies flatly. “That’s spectacular. No one saw that coming.”
Relationships: Kenny McCormick/Craig Tucker, Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh, past Token/Kyle
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	To The Ends Of The Earth

_Now_

* * *

The nice term for what Kyle’s going through is a _sabbatical_.

Latin in origin, and often a gift. A paid, extended vacation from teaching.

That’s the way the university framed it, when he was called into the dean’s office, but in actuality, this is a _punishment_. The pussies in Kyle’s theoretical physics class couldn’t handle a challenge, the _gauntlet of science_ – and okay, a little taunting along with it.

Kyle doesn’t suffer idiots.

And apparently, idiots won’t suffer him. They _whined_ and bitched and complained, and now, in the summer months when he would normally be planning out next term’s curriculum, Kyle’s in exile.

Exile consists of his childhood bed, where he is laying with his arms folded behind his head, watching the curtains move against too-bright sunlight.

He’s spent two weeks doing nothing but this, alternately wallowing and simmering with hate. When this sabbatical ends, there will be hell to pay for every single one of those weak-willed whistle blowers.

But until then, Kyle needs to figure out what to do.

Because lying in bed is nice. It’s safe.

It’s absolutely _untenable_.

Kyle likes to think of himself as a man of action, and right now, the most action this room is seeing is the quiet hiss of his breath, in and out, and the occasional grumble of his stomach.

He supposes he could head downstairs and put an end to that, at the very least, but his mom is waiting down there, with all of her judgment and disapproval. Kyle might be a man of action, but he’s not a masochist. God.

He sighs and rolls onto his stomach, groping under his pillow hoard until he finds the sleek lines of his phone. He keys in Kenny’s name under his contact list, biting the bullet.

The phone rings.

And rings.

And rings.

“Kenny, I swear to fucking Abraham,” Kyle mutters to himself, and before he can end the call, the line clicks.

“Well, well, well. I was _positive_ you lost my number, shithead.”

“Nice to hear your pretty voice too.” Kyle rolls his eyes at the ceiling, secure in the knowledge that Kenny can’t see him. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Definitely not hanging out with you.”

“Right, sure. Pick me up at seven?”

“I said _no_ , ass-“

“See you then.”

Kyle hangs up, because he prefers the last word, and also because Kenny’s messing around. There’s no way he’d miss a chance to soak up Kyle’s presence.

He’s _a delight_.

He reminds himself of that three hours later, when Kenny’s idling noisily in Kyle’s driveway, behind the wheel of a silver pickup truck with a huge dent in the side.

He has to, because Kenny is glaring daggers at him. “I’m not a chauffeur service, Brof.”

“How else am I supposed to get to the bar?”

“Call an Uber?” Kenny counters, but he pushes the gear shift into reverse once Kyle secures his seat belt. “How long have you been in town?”

“Too long.”

“Melancholy fuck. That’s not an answer.”

“What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”

Kenny squints, examining Kyle from the corner of his eye. “You don’t look like a witch.”

“Watch the road. Two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” Kenny yelps, jerking the wheel into a swerve – on purpose, obviously, because Kenny operates under the impression that he’s funny. “You’ve been flying under the radar for two weeks?”

“I didn’t want it getting around.”

“Right, right. That makes zero sense, but I’m assuming you already know that.”

“I’m a smart guy,” Kyle agrees.

“I’m glad you think so.” Kenny pulls up outside of Skeeter’s, which looks more or less the same as it did when Kyle booked it out of this shit hole town. They’ve got beer, and a decent cabernet, which is all he cares about at this point.

“You’re buying me a pitcher,” Kenny orders, parking right in front.

He whips out his phone instead of climbing out, and Kyle demands, “What’s with the delay?”

“Kev’ll pick up the truck.”

“Your brother? Where is he?” Kyle asks, searching the far, shadowy corners of the bar parking lot, like Kevin will emerge from some hidey hole.

Kenny catches him spying, and snorts. “Peppermint Hippo, around the corner. He’s a bouncer.”

The implication to Kenny’s tone is that Kyle should already know that.

He would, if he’d bothered to check in recently. A bit rueful, Kyle wonders whether he _has_ gone too heavy on the radio silence. He’s been stressed. Overworked.

That’s what the Dean of the Physics department told him, anyway. Right before Kyle was _let go_.

He clenches his fists in his lap. “How about that pitcher, huh?”

The inside of Skeeter’s is similarly unchanged, all crumbling red brick that used to be chic and stained steel spigots. It’s a time machine that transports Kyle back to high school, with a fake ID and friends who aren’t ticked off at him.

Kenny claims a high top in the far corner while Kyle orders some local craft beer that’s likely going to taste like shit, and the aforementioned cabernet. The eponymous Skeeter regards him warily from behind the bar. “Aren’t you Gerald’s kid?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“You old enough to drink?”

“For years now.”

“Don’t know if I believe that.”

That’s rich, considering that Skeeter’s used to take his bogus credentials sans attitude when Kyle was sixteen. He sighs. “My birthday’s on the card, man.”

Skeeter squints at it. “Could be doctored.”

“Don’t you have one of those machines? You know, the scanners?”

“Do I look like I’m made of money, son?”

Across the bar, Kenny calls, “He’s good, Skeet. Pour us a drink!”

“McCormick?” Skeeter’s face screws up into suspicion. “Didn’t I ban you?”

“Hmm…” Kenny assumes an angelic expression, appearing to ponder the question. “Nope, doesn’t sound like something that happened.”

“Oh. ‘kay then.” Giving Kyle the stink eye, Skeeter fills up a groddy plastic pitcher. It likely hasn’t seen a good wash since…well, ever. When he hands it over, it’s got a giant foam head. Disgusting.

He pours Kyle’s cab directly after, rather messily. Ruby red flecks the sides of the glass. Skeeter gives him this, along with some a dire warning, for funsies. “No monkey business.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Kyle pastes on a smile faker than any ID he’s ever used, and carries the beer back to Kenny. “I see the town’s still emphasizing hospitality.”

“Give Skeeter a break. The guy’s a dinosaur.”

“Did he really ban you?”

“Five times now.” Cheerfully, Kenny adds, “But only three of them were my fault.”

Kenny doles out the alcohol, performing a perfect pour. No foam at all. He groans appreciatively, taking a long, long chug.

Kyle agrees, although he thinks his drink is much more refined. “I needed this.”

“My company? Good answer.”

“That too,” Kyle says. “How’ve you been?”

“The better question is, how’ve you been? Why are you back, Kyle?”

“I’m on sabbatical,” he explains, cringing a bit, even though Kenny can’t know the why or the how of his circumstances.

“They paying you for that?”

“Yes.” Small mercies.

“Wow. Cushy gig.” Kenny take a swig of his drink. “Why didn’t you stay in Minneapolis?”

“It’s…cold there,” Kyle tries. He’s aware the excuse won’t fly the second it leaves his mouth, but it’s too late to pull it back in.

“Shit, dude. It’s cold here.” Kenny frowns at him. He’s had the same bitch face since age five, too-blond brows furrowed deeply and a scrunch to his freckled nose. “So you’re like, _back_ back?”

Kyle hedges, “I’ll be here for a few months.”

“Months?” Kenny’s summer blue eyes crinkle, excitement creeping in. “That’s aces. Hey, you’ll be here for the wedding.”

 _The wedding_. Right. Kyle forgot about that.

“I’m not going.”

That startles Kenny out of his smugness. “Why not? You got an invite, right?”

“I got an invite. I’m RSVPing a hefty _Hell No_.”

“Absolutely fucking not.” Kenny is stern. “If you don’t show, Token wins.”

“He’s hot, rich, smart, and in love. He’s already won, Kenny.”

“Details. Look, do you want everyone to think you’re still smitten over your ex? Do you want to be this town’s poor, broken hearted loser?”

“He didn’t break my heart.” Kyle crosses his arms over his chest, very uncomfortable with this entire line of questioning. “I’ll have you know, my heart is in perfect working condition.”

“Prove it. Come to the wedding.”

“Alone? You don’t think that’s more pathetic?”

“So get a date.”

“Like that’s so easy.”

“It is.” Kenny shrugs.

“For you. It is for you.”

Kenny leans back in his chair, putting the long, strong lines of his body on display. “I can’t help it that I’m beautiful.”

“Really? You don’t think it has to do with your winning personality?”

Kenny grimaces. “I don’t know why you’re being sarcastic. I’m a ray of fucking sunshine, man. People like me.”

“Okay, so be my date. Make me personable.”

“Love to, babe, but I’m off the market.”

“Since when?”

“Since like, three years ago. I’ve been with Craig roughly that long.” Kenny levels him with a look that says he’s not going to harp on this, but that Kyle should really learn to call more, and maybe listen when his friends talk.

Kyle sags and accepts that yeah, he’s been a bit of a dick.

“Sorry, Ken. I’m scatterbrained right now.”

“Being home’s rough.” Kenny pours himself another drink, politely not pointing out that Kyle’s been scatterbrained for, give or take, a few years. A hush settles over the table. Then, “You thought about talking to Stan?”

 _Stan_. Ugh. Kyle scowls into his wine.

“We’re taking some time. And space.”

“Jesus Christ, Broflovski, it’s been over a decade. How much more time and space do you need?”

“More.” Kyle pouts. “Much, much more.”

“You’re a child.”

“I am a tenured professor.”

“A child,” Kenny emphasizes.

“Can we not talk about this?” Kyle wrinkles his nose, spinning the stem of his glass between his hands. “There are so many better subjects. How’s Craig? Why Craig?”

Kenny lights up. This is clearly one of his favorite subjects.

“Let me tell you, my dude, I’ve seen a lot of penises in my time, but Craig’s is the Sistine Chapel of dicks.”

A bit fearfully, Kyle inquires, “What…what does that even mean?”

Kenny starts in on the trifecta of length, girth, _and_ stamina.

Kyle can’t imagine the look on his face approaches anything other than mild fascination comingled with absolute horror, but Kenny is incorrigible once he gets started. He spends the better part of an hour touting Craig’s assets, most of which Kyle never, ever, ever, _ever_ wanted to know about.

“And his ass is sculpted from marble, like no shit, I think Michelangelo had a hand in carving it out,” Kenny rambles on, unaware that Kyle’s psyche is slowly fracturing.

But.

Despite the trauma that will surely be fodder for all of Kyle’s therapy sessions for years to come…

It’s one of the best nights he’s had in a while.

* * *

_Then (Senior Year - Autumn)_

* * *

When Token first asks Kyle out, his response is little more than a, “Thanks, man. I’m flattered, but I don’t swing that way.”

“Bummer,” Token replies, all easy grace. “Better luck next time.”

Sympathetic, Kyle thinks about suggesting he try Craig, or Kenny, the only two kids at Park County High he’s aware of who are out and open about it. But Craig is one of Token’s best friends – if there was something between the two, they’d already know – and Kenny is in the middle of his bifabulous phase, which primarily seems to involve gunning for prom dates with the school’s head cheerleader _and_ her jock boyfriend.

Commitment isn’t written on the McCormick calling cards these days.

Instead of blurting out something unhelpful, all Kyle says is, “Yeah, man. Hope you find that special someone.”

He turns back to his lunch with a thoughtful expression, and is somewhat flabbergasted to find that everyone there is gaping at him.

“I can’t believe you shot Token down,” Wendy exclaims, from her perch in Stan’s lap. They’re all PDA all the time, constantly playing footsie under desks and groping each other against lockers. “He’s a catch.”

“Watch it,” Stan protests, burying his nose against the crook of her neck.

She squeals and squirms, which is probably the desired effect, long legs kicking out and narrowly avoiding Kenny, who is sleeping on his folded arms in the next seat over.

Cartman intones something rude about Stan’s girlfriend’s wandering eye, and in turn Wendy retorts that he shouldn’t worry, because her eye will never swing his way. He mutters something about how she should go back to sitting with the cheerleaders, and she infers that he just wants to watch her skirt while she walks away.

Through it all, Stan sits back and does not try to mediate any of it, watching Wendy and Cartman argue like it isn’t the same exact pageant they’ve been performing since fourth grade. Through his mop of messy, dark hair, he winks in Kyle’s direction, cobalt blue flashing in and out of existence.

Kyle ignores him, and the argument, in favor of his turkey sandwich, which features a nice aioli. Ike is on a cooking kick, and it’s paying off dividends.

His mind, though, that’s elsewhere. On Token, across the cafeteria, sitting with Craig, and Clyde, and the other guys on the football team, laughing and smiling and generally being kings of the universe.

Why did he think to ask Kyle out?

What made him think Kyle was _gay_?

* * *

He asks Stan about it later, in woodshop, where the question won’t be overheard amongst the circular saws and the song that accompanies Butter Stotch’s enthusiastic whittling.

“Dunno,” Stan tells him, lifting one broad shoulder. Across the way, a group of junior girls stare longingly at every move he makes. Perks of being a football star, Kyle guesses. “Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he just likes you.”

“I mean, I like him. But not enough to suck his dick.”

Stan purses his lips, his signature face for when he’s thinking too hard. He’s going to blow a gasket if he keeps on this way, and Kyle opens his mouth to say so when Stan concludes, “You could work up to that part, though, couldn’t you? If you thought there was a spark.”

“A spark?” Kyle is incredulous. “What are you saying right now? That I should give blowjobs a try?”

“They’re a good time all around!” Stan jokes, and when Kyle makes a face at him, he corrects, “To receive. Can’t say I’ve been on the gifting end, there.”

Grumpily, Kyle responds, “That’s what I thought.”

“No, Ky, all I mean is…” Stan shoves his long fingers through thick black, mussing his hair even more artfully. “You haven’t dated anyone since sophomore year. High school can’t be all about studying and basketball.”

“I do track, too,” Kyle informs him, perfectly content to be snotty about it.

Stan grins. “Studying, and basketball, and _track_. You should have fun, too. Be a kid. Experiment.”

“Fairly certain I’m supposed to _experiment_ in college.”

“I don’t think there are time constraints on experimentation.” Happy-go-lucky, Stan tilts his metal stool on its hind legs, defying gravity with the confidence of someone who is unused to failure. Or falling. “Date Token, don’t date Token. All I want is for you to be happy, brother.”

Kyle considers it. Stan’s not wrong – it’s been an age since his last date. And it’s not like Kyle’s never had the option. Girls ask him out all the time, but he’s picky. He always has been.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to give Token a chance.

* * *

_Now_

* * *

Kyle’s mother is determined to ruin his life.

“What do you mean you invited the Marshes to dinner?”

“Did I stutter?” Nonplussed, his mom continues stirring her wooden spoon in the actual vat of stew she’s making. “I invited them over, we’re going to eat. You have two degrees in science, Bubbeleh, this shouldn’t be hard for you to understand.”

“But you- but I- why would you do that?”

“Sharon and Randy are my friends?” The food smells delicious, but it’s making Kyle nauseous. He puts a hand to the back of his forehead, like a maiden about to swoon. Suspiciously, his mother demands, “Kyle, what’s gotten into you?”

Kyle has no idea how to answer that, so he does the mature thing and takes his tantrum up to his room.

He seriously considers running out for a burger, but all that would achieve is hurting his mom’s feelings. If there’s anything he’s learned since he left home, it’s that no matter how old he gets, his mother will always have her hands wound tight around his heart strings.

When she’s upset, Kyle gets upset, even if he’s a billion miles away when it happens.

And Kyle doesn’t have the luxury of distance, now, which…He’s fairly sure he can’t handle one of Sheila Broflovski’s patented nuclear meltdowns up close anymore. He’s grown accustomed to the safety of cell phones and his own private space in his old age. His childhood bedroom doesn’t even have a lock.

Kyle curls up on the bed, holding his knees tight to his chest. Panic is creeping up the length of his spine, the thunder of his blood growing loud in his ears.

Downstairs, he hears the door open and shut. There’s the murmur of greetings, the low rumble of Randy’s voice demanding beer, and the softer tones of Sharon, asking how everyone has been.

Kyle listens for more, strains to hear the one person he’s absolutely dreading, but there’s nothing.

Nothing at all.

Until there’s everything.

“Kyle?”

He’s framed in the doorway, his shape etched out by light, an inverted photo negative.

But Kyle knows his voice, and worse, thinks he would recognize him if he hadn’t said anything at all. Stan steps into the plush dark of the room, jean-clad and wrapped up in a form fitting sweater. The air is a hot rush from Kyle’s lungs.

He wraps his arms more tightly around his calves, instinctively shying away. The universe is a cruel, unfair place.

A person might think, after being friends since like, birth, that Stan would slip into Kyle’s childhood bedroom with the same ease as any other old, familiar thing. Teddy bears and blankies, favorite toys and storybooks.

Maybe once upon a time, he had.

Only now, Kyle can see what he was blind to, in his youth. His entire body is primed, trembling, switched on. Because.

Because Stan fucking Marsh.

He’s got this energy that’s overtly sexual. He’s all long legs and broad shoulders, dimples and lazy confidence and bedroom eyes. Even when he’s shame spiraling, shoulders hunched and pockets stuffed with crappy beat poetry and a flask of whisky, it’s there. Girls basically throw themselves at his feet, and theirs aren’t the only gazes that linger on his ass.

Kyle doesn’t like to dwell on it.

He never did, not even back when he and Stan were attached at the hip, some combination of envy and sick, ill-advised empathy for all those love struck fools living deep in his bones.

And yet, despite this long-learned wisdom, he inhales the warm, clean, overpowering scent of Stan stupid-face the second he comes near.

Instantly intoxicated, instantly disgusted, Kyle shakes his head and forbids any further self-betrayal. Coolly, he drawls, “Hello.”

“Hi.” Stan isn’t particularly friendly either. Hands shoved in his jeans, posture rigid, he grunts, “Your mom says dinner’s ready.”

“Great. I’ll be right there.”

“Spectacular.” Stan turns on his heel to go.

Except, some invisible force grinds his advance to a halt, steps petering out. The hall lights line his silhouette in gold, like a young god, a myth.

Kyle can’t tear his eyes away. 

Gruffly, Stan asks, “How long you been home?”

“A few weeks,” Kyle rasps out.

He’s unsure why he sounds like this, like he’s swallowed a razor blade. Stan shouldn’t have this kind of power over him.

Not anymore. 

“A few weeks,” Stan repeats, inscrutable.

The set of his shoulders reveals nothing, and Kyle wishes, briefly, that he could see his face. Thinks that if he does, he’ll know instinctively what Stan is feeling.

He always used to.

But that was a long time ago.

* * *

Dinner is about what Kyle expected.

Conversation flows freely between his parents and Stan’s. His mom and Stan’s dad trade barbs with long familiarity, each trying to one up each other while Gerald and Sharon try to finesse the discourse with strategically placed, subdued commentary.

Meanwhile, Stan flat out ignores Kyle.

His fork scrapes his plate with grating accuracy. Metal against ceramic, and a hot, angry spike dead center in Kyle’s brain, every time it happens.

He wants to slug Stan in that square jaw of his, but all that will get him is hysterics from his mom, who has never understood why her son and his best friend went from living in each other’s pockets to acting like begrudging acquaintances. So he tries to focus on something else, like the grueling lesson plans he’s plotting out, to be delivered once this sham of a sabbatical ends.

“-well, Kyle is going through a rough patch, as you know.” His mom’s voice drills down into his thoughts. “The university terminated his contract-“

Sharp, Kyle interrupts, “Ma, that’s not what happened. I wasn’t fired.”

She purses her lips. “Well. I’m sure there was a bit more nuance.”

“I’m still on the payroll,” Kyle keeps his attention on the biscuit he’s tearing into tiny shreds on his plate, explaining, “I needed a break.”

Randy and Sharon’s heads are swinging back and forth between Kyle and Sheila like they’re watching a tennis match. But Kyle knows, with marrow-deep certainty, that Stan’s eyes haven’t left him since this portion of the conversation began. He can feel the weight of them. And it’s wrong.

It’s making it too hard to breathe.

“Kyle-“ His mother starts.

“Let’s not.” Kyle pushes his chair back and away from the table, too aware of Stan to stay. “I’ve got a headache.”

“Kyle!” Sheila tries, horrified by his poor manners.

Kyle ignores her. His head really is pounding.

Just not as hard as his heart.

* * *

_Then (Senior Year - Autumn)_

* * *

Kyle and Token’s first date is awful and stilted.

For the first ten minutes, at least.

They’re at an Italian restaurant, recently opened in what passes as South Park’s “hip” block. It’s not any fancier than any of the chains around town, but the addition of small, flickering tea candles and dim mood lighting makes it clear that the whole place is staged for romance.

Which makes everything so much worse.

Kyle has no idea what to talk about, even though he’s known Token most of his life. And Token is horribly understanding about it, carrying the conversation on with dead air, as though Kyle is filling all his thoughtful pauses with witty responses rather than sulking.

Their shared appetizer of arancini sits congealing between them while Token rattles through topics like cafeteria lunches and vintage cars, the newest superhero flick, and now, their last basketball season. “I was thinking about playing in college.”

That, at last, grabs Kyle’s attention. “Have you been recruited?”

“Not yet,” Token replies, betraying the merest hint of astonishment before recovering smoothly. “My dad’s frat buddies with a recruiter at Tulane. He might come to one of our games.”

Kyle snorts. “Imagine that. A recruiter, watching _us_ play.”

Park County High’s team is notoriously bad, at no fault of Kyle or Token. They’re the two best players on the court, but they’re also the only players who give a fuck.

It hasn’t exactly made for any winning seasons.

“You’ll probably outshine me,” Token tells him.

“Nah, man. You’ve got moves.”

Modestly, Token ducks his head. “Maybe he’ll be interested in both of us.”

It’s a nice idea, but, “My mom will have a fit if I try to go out of state.”

“Even with a scholarship?”

Kyle taps his fingers against the plastic tablecloth, alternating between hitting the red and white checks. “It’s not a money thing so much as a…distance thing, I guess.”

“Cut the cord already, Broflovski.”

“Gross.” Kyle shakes his head. “It’s not only my mom, though. Ike doesn’t, uh…really have friends. And Stan’s thinking about taking a gap year.”

Token twirls his fork between his fingers. “Really? I heard Wendy bullying him into turning in an application to Berkeley.”

That gives Kyle pause. Berkeley. Where Wendy is most definitely going, if she doesn’t get into Stanford. (She’ll get into Stanford). Those two schools aren’t a far drive from each other, either way. Closer than California and Colorado, at any rate.

This is news.

Kyle and Stan have talked about college, obviously. Obsessively, on Kyle’s part. And yet, somehow, this never came up.

He winces and tells Token, “Maybe he has a new plan.”

Token shrugs. “You shouldn’t base your whole life around Marsh, anyway. You’ve got a lot going for you.”

“He’s my best friend.”

“Not saying he isn’t. But he loves this whole small town vibe. I can’t see you stuck in South Park, forever.”

Forever _is_ an awfully long time.

Kyle mulls that over while their waiter brings out their entrees. They’re steaming hot, slathered in marinara. Mouth watering, he changes the subject. “What about you, then? You’re definitely going to get out while the getting’s good?”

“Absolutely.” Token gives him a toothy grin and says, “I’m going to be somebody.”

He’s handsome, Kyle realizes abruptly, examining Token over his plate of Bolognese. Kyle’s still awkward, gawky. Not quite out of puberty. A lot of his classmates are.

But Token’s got a subtle polish that belies the young man he’s becoming. Kyle can imagine him in college, breaking hearts and taking names. And all that ambition is refreshing – the only other person Kyle knows with that kind of drive is Wendy, and she’s…well, Wendy.

“I bet you are,” Kyle replies, and to his surprise, his shoulders finally loosen.

* * *

They sit outside Kyle’s house in Token’s Mustang for what’s got to be close to an hour. Winter is encroaching on the town, the last traces of cool summer breezes turning sharp and pointed, but Token has the heater going strong. The atmosphere is relaxed. Casual.

Nothing like the beginning of their date, which was so painful that Kyle grits his teeth every time he thinks about it. Everything’s so easy now that he’s tricked himself into forgetting.

This is _a date_.

He remembers via a swift kick to the gut, when Token, illuminated by the blue-green dashlights, announces, “I’ve got to get going.”

Kyle’s bummed, even though he’ll see Token at school soon enough. But he’s also relieved – for a date, this wasn’t bad. There aren’t any expectations. Token’s not going to walk him to his door, dance around wanting something physical.

But…

What if…

What if something physical _intrigues_ Kyle?

How would he ask for that? To try it, at least?

Not that Kyle wants to try it. He’s still working out what it is that he does want, figuring he should settle for the word _goodbye_ when Token leans across the space between them.

It’s a credit to him that he makes the whole move seem simple, almost choreographed. The press of his lips against Kyle’s is brief, warm. Unexpected, to be sure. But nice.

This is what it’s like, to be kissed. Full stop.

No less enjoyable than if a girl did it, and doesn’t that blow Kyle’s mind a little?

Token pulls back, smiling. “This was fun though. Maybe we could do it again sometime?”

“Uh.” Kyle’s tongue darts out, tasting Token on his skin. “Yeah. Or, uh.”

He’s not used to being this nervous, but the thing is…

Sometime is so far away.

He curls his fingers against the back of Token’s neck, registering heated skin and the strong beat of a pulse.

This time, it’s him who presses his mouth against Token’s. He kisses him deeper, wetter. Token makes a soft noise of pleasure, lips parting against Kyle’s.

This time, it’s more than _nice_.

* * *

“How’d the date go?” Stan asks, his voice low and close over the phone.

Kyle, who had been digging through his bureau for a clean pair of underwear, stops. He sits on his old, familiar comforter and says, “Actually. Better than I thought.”

“Really?” Stan whistles, and Kyle can hear the _click click click_ of typing. He wonders if Stan’s working on his Berkeley essay.

Asking would only stir the pot. Kyle doesn’t want to end what’s turned into a pretty good evening by bickering with his best friend.

Stan says, “Tell me more, tell me more.”

Underplaying it a bit, Kyle demurs, “There’s not a lot to tell. Token’s cool.”

“I know that. You know that. We’ve been in school with the guy forever.” Stan’s exasperation comes through loud and clear. “Where’d you go, what’d you do? Did you snag a goodnight kiss?”

There’s laughter over the line, the crackle of Stan’s mirth. It’s almost as though he finds the whole concept ludicrous – like he can’t see someone like Token kissing Kyle.

Annoyed, Kyle doesn’t say anything.

The typing stops.

“Wait, no way! You did, didn’t you? You kissed him!”

Prim, and a bit hurt by the implications of Stan’s wisecracking, Kyle replies, “A gentleman never tells.”

“Sick, dude, I don’t want details!”

“Evidently.”

“Ky, I didn’t mean it like that.” Stan is some combination of scandalized, outraged, and captivated. Kyle can hear him moving around his room, settling into a comfy nook so he can listen more properly. “Did you like, make out?”

“You said no details.” Kyle sighs and falls back against his bed. “And it was a date, Stan. What else were we supposed to do?”

There’s a stunned pause. Then, “It was a _first date_. You could’ve, I don’t know, held hands.”

“Is that what Wendy and you did on your first date?”

“We started dating in like, second grade. I have no idea what we did the first time. It probably wasn’t making out.”

Kyle doesn’t say anything again, which only confirms that he and Token _made out_.

“Oh,” Stan says. Tentatively, almost as if he’s probing a wound, he asks, “So how was it?”

There’s a knot in Kyle’s lungs. Carefully, he answers, “It was…good. Really good.”

“Right.” It’s gotta be the connection, but Stan doesn’t sound super pleased. Or like he’s cheering on Kyle’s success. Instead, he’s bitchy. Upset. “Good. That’s good. That’s so good. Are you going to go on another _date_?”

“I don’t know why you’re saying it like that.”

“Like what?”

“ _Daaate_.” Kyle replies, singsong. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”

“Do not.”

“Do too. Like Token’s going to force me to join a sex cult or something.”

“I made no mention of sex cults.”

“What’s going on, man?” Kyle demands, facing the problem head on, because that’s what he does. That’s who he is. “I thought you wanted me to be happy?”

“I did! I do!” Stan’s voice cracks the slightest bit. “Um. So. You’re happy?”

“Thrilled.” Kyle says flatly. He advises, “Be thrilled for me.”

“I am. Seriously. I am, Kyle.”

It’s all extremely not convincing.

“Okay.”

“Okay. Only…”

Hard-edged, Kyle asks, “What now?”

Timid, Stan ventures, “Are you gay now?”

“I haven’t really given it any thought,” Kyle lies. This whole back and forth is weird. He doesn’t want to be a part of it anymore. “What I am is exhausted.”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to turn in.”

“Sure,” Stan’s turning even meeker, any last remnants of irritation leeching away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-“

“It’s okay.”

It’s not.

Stan has to know it’s not. He knows Kyle better than he knows himself.

But all he says is, “Okay.”

* * *

_Now_

* * *

Kyle can’t take another minute at home, with his mother watching him like he’s about to fall apart. He appreciates her concern and everything – he’s always had the kind of Type A personality where frustrating obstacles tend to lead to tantrum-ing.

But Stan is not that kind of roadblock.

Kyle’s fine.

All he needs is a chance to recoup without anyone hovering, interrogating his choices.

He heads to Kenny’s, with a quick text to let him know he’s coming, and that he doesn’t want to answer any questions when he gets there. It seems like a good idea until Kyle’s parked outside his place.

The apartment complex Kenny’s tucked himself away in is blocky, made of gray cinder, and not very inviting. It’s almost worse inside, with flickering fluorescent lights and a dark, muddy stairwell that hasn’t been cleaned this side of the millennium.

When Kenny opens his front door and ushers Kyle inside, he says grandly, “Welcome to my boudoir!”

He can barely stretch his arms out to either side.

Kyle’s increasingly claustrophobic. Meanly, he retorts, “You live in a closet.”

“I do!” Kenny replies happily. “But it’s my closet. I own it. No rent for me!”

Kyle didn’t know that.

Even if the walls are squeezing in on him, now he feels like an ass. Softening, he tells Kenny, “Hey. That’s great.”

Kenny beams, never one to hold a grudge.

Not even when Kyle consistently puts his foot in his mouth.

“Thanks, man. Anyway. Didn’t we talk about that staying in touch thing?”

Kyle ducks his head. It’s been two weeks since that night at the bar, and he’s done the bare minimum in terms of texting. Mostly, he’s wallowed in his bedroom, burritoed in his favorite blanket with a bag of gummy worms, until last night’s awful debacle jolted him out of his pityfest. “I’m sorry.”

“Bygones.” Kenny waves the whole affair away. He shoves a pile of things - bills and titty magazines, it looks like - off of a coffee table with great flourish, yanking an embossed piece of paper from beneath the few items left. “Invitation.”

It’s pearly white, emblazoned with swooping calligraphy. Kyle recognizes it immediately. “I have one of these.”

Kenny counters, “You threw it in the trash.”

“Fine. I had one of these,” Kyle corrects himself, wondering how on earth Kenny knows that. “I told you I’m not going.”

“And I told you that’s completely unacceptable.”

“It’s weird how I didn’t put you in charge of my life.”

“It _is_ weird! Because I’m so much better at running it than you.” Kenny puts his hands on his hips, performing the best imitation of his mother that Kyle’s ever witnessed. “Seriously, Kyle. You need to go. And you need to have some actual man candy on your arm.”

“I see zero point in this exercise.”

“Showing Token up? Come on, Broflovski, you’re smarter than this.”

Kyle _is_ smarter than this. He knows better than to even engage. And yet, from his mouth, slips, “It sounds…mean? To do that?”

His physics class would be in awe of the sudden appearance of Kyle’s ethics.

“Are you asking me if it’s okay, here?” Kenny’s mouth twists, making the angles of the face starker. “Guy broke your heart, Kyle.”

Grumpily, Kyle retorts, “We’ve already established that that’s not true.”

“Uh huh.”

Kenny stares Kyle down with those baby blues of his until, reluctantly, Kyle rubs a hand over his chest and admits, “It stung. A little. When he broke up with me.”

Kenny is not fooled. “Stung? You were a wreck.”

Wreck.

Yeah, that might be the right word. If Kyle’s being honest, the way things ended with Token…it wasn’t what he would’ve preferred.

But it’s also none of Kenny’s business. “I simply can’t recall.”

Kenny throws up his hands and says, “Fine. Guy barely left a dent in you. I still think we should be petty as shit.”

“That’s idiotic. Whatever we were was years ago.”

“Right, exactly. That’s why it’s okay to be _petty as shit_! The absolute best revenge is to show Token you’re doing better without him! Only, like. It won’t actually hurt his feelings. I don’t wanna be cruel, man. He’s my friend.” Thoughtfully, Kenny adds, “And he’s my boyfriend’s best friend. But also, you’re my best friend. Get you that petty revenge.” 

“That’s…really convoluted, bud.”

“I never claimed to be a rocket scientist.” Kenny lifts one shoulder, like _whatcha gonna do about it_? “The be all end all of this is that I’m right.”

“I guess.”

“Don’t guess. Know. Feel it, deep in your soul! I am so fucking right that the entire world can sense my rightness. You’re going to the wedding, and you’re going to show up with a hotass date.”

“Sure.” Kyle concedes, even if he isn’t completely swayed. “Any suggestions?”

Slyly, Kenny begins, “I know a certain attractive geologist who is single, out, and proud…”

“No.”

“It would be a great way to make amends.”

“Fuck no.”

“Alright. Look, Kyle. I’m going to give it to you straight. The wedding is…soon. Every eligible bachelor in South Park already has a date, or is close enough to Token that showing up as your date is not going to be believable.”

“Oh, but Stan will be?”

“Sure.”

“We don’t talk. Everyone knows that.”

“And everyone knows you’ll both cave eventually, because whatever you’re fighting about is moronic.” Kenny raises a single blond eyebrow. “And what is it that you’re both so angry about, again? Remind me?”

“Nice try.” Kyle huffs. “Pettiness has merit, but Stan? That’s a gargantuan _heck no_ from me.”

 _Heck_ , Kenny mouths, frame trembling. “Watch it with the potty words, there.”

“Shut up.” Kyle glances around. “Does Craig, uh. Live here, with you?”

“ _Heck_. No,” Kenny mocks, savoring the moment. “Does it look like two people can fit in this sty?”

“Hey, this is your sty.”

“Damn straight, Broflovski. Now, I stole a bottle of the cheap stuff from work, and I hear tell there’s some Nuggets games rerunning on ESPN.”

“It’s like you’re trying to seduce me.”

Kenny winks. “If you’re a good boy. But I’m still not going to be your wedding date.”

“ _Fuck_. I swear, I’m better in bed than Craig.”

“Doubtful.”

“I am!”

“The Sistine Chapel of schlongs,” Kenny intones, dredging up their last conversation, and _oh god_.

“I’d just blocked that out!”

* * *

_Then (Senior Year - Autumn)_

* * *

Kyle’s never dated anyone for more than a few weeks at a time, but somehow, a month in and he and Token are going strong.

More than that, they’re _thriving_.

They announced their relationship to the world last week, and sans a few choice comments from Cartman, no one at school seemed to care. It made everything easier than Kyle thinks it should be:

“Isn’t coming out supposed to be this fraught process? Where are the tears? Where is the drama?” He asks Token that same Friday afternoon. Token, who laughs and kisses him in full view of all their peers; the kind of dizzying, dirty kisses that Kyle is quickly becoming addicted to.

“You’re overthinking this.”

He is, absolutely. Kyle has trouble _not_ thinking, and right now, everything’s up in the air.

Starting with Token. Kyle’s not sure if he’s completely…well, gay, but he’s definitely very into this. Being pressed by a hard-bodied boy into the flashy chrome of his car, the November sun a shiny penny in the sky, and the clouds long, wind-swept streaks above them.

There’s an intensity with Token that Kyle’s never felt with anyone else, but he doesn’t know if it’s the result of Token being a guy or Token being Token. He does do everything with a special flare.

But it means that he doesn’t have an answer to Stan’s question.

Stan, who’s been weird, since that one call.

Not overtly so – not so weird that Kenny or Wendy or Cartman have noticed – but Kyle’s attuned to him. They resonate at the same frequencies, and Stan’s is off.

It’s grating, because Kyle usually knows _why_. He doesn’t always understand, or even sympathize, but he always knows _why_ something’s up with Stan.

This time, he’s got nothing.

No clue what’s crawled up Stan’s ass.

Not an inkling of whether this, Token’s hands against his abs and his tongue practically down Kyle’s throat, makes him gay.

And in the end, that might not be so bad. Kyle doesn’t much care if he is, or isn’t, honestly. He doesn’t need labels right now.

He doesn’t need Stan’s drama, either.

He’s a high school senior.

The entire world is at his feet.

* * *

_Now_

* * *

The part that Kyle finds very annoying is:

Kenny’s _right_.

Mulling it over while he shovels cornflakes in his mouth the next morning, Kyle comes to the conclusion that he does want to be petty.

He wants to go to Token’s wedding and show off how well he’s doing.

At the very least, he wants Token to see that Kyle hasn’t been locked into a string of flimsy, loveless relationships ever since high school, as a form of mourning what they once shared.

Even if that’s exactly how Kyle’s been living his life.

The other thing Kenny’s right about is asking Stan to be his date. Kyle would rather rip out and devour his own small intestine than give Stan the time of day, but he’s the extra _fuck you_ topping on the pettiness sundae that Kenny proscribed.

Besides, Kenny was right about South Park’s list of eligible gay bachelors – they aren’t bountiful. Stan is a good catch, if Kyle can look at this objectively. 

Gag.

Before he loses his nerve, he grabs his dad’s car keys off the pristine quartz countertop and books it out of South Park.

He chooses to grab Stan’s address from his mother, hat in hand on one of those fleeting Colorado summer days where the breeze is closer to balmy than brisk.

He could’ve gone to Kenny, but just because Kenny’s right doesn’t mean Kyle has to watch him be smug about it. That’s why he’s standing on the steps of the farmhouse, self-conscious about how different he looked the last time he stood here, back when he was sun-kissed athlete with something resembling biceps versus the pasty, lanky professor he is now.

Kyle tried to keep up with the gym in college, and beyond, but academics are his first true love. And it’s hard to organize basketball games with friends on the weekends when, frankly, he doesn’t have many people he’s close to.

Maybe he’s a little broken inside.

Maybe no one can fill the void Stan left.

Maybe he’s delaying knocking.

Kyle squares his shoulders and does so; three fast, booming taps of his knuckles. No turning back now. 

Out in the field, the low drone of Randy’s tractor reverberates, the herby scent of marijuana permeating the air.

Stan always hated it out here, but it’s peaceful, in its way.

Kyle thinks that knowing full well an inconstant wifi signal would drive him insane.

He’s half convinced himself he should pack up and spend this whole sabbatical in a log cabin in the woods when Sharon opens the door.

Her surprise is palpable. “Kyle! Haven’t seen you around these parts in a while.”

“Yes, Mrs. Marsh.” Kyle bows his head respectfully. “I’m sorry to drop by unannounced, but I was wondering if you could give me Stan’s address?”

“Stanley?” Her eyes widen. As if she might have misheard, she repeats, “You want Stan’s address?”

This is part of the reason he came, instead of calling. He’s positive the Marshes have the same landline and phone number they’ve kept forever, but he half-hoped that Sharon’s shock would shake him free of this haze of bad decision-making.

Instead, the way Sharon is ogling him compels him to flash his teeth and say, “Yes, ma’am. Please.” 

* * *

As far as South Park has parts of town, Stan lives in one of the nicer ones.

Unlike Kenny’s apartment building, Stan’s has myriad windows reflecting back the early June sky – a deep, true blue – and a façade crafted in cheerful primary colors. Red, yellow, green, in abstract shapes. Stan must make decent money playing with rocks.

It’s fucked that Stan followed in his dad’s footsteps when he spent so many years rebelling against everything he was. But Kyle supposes that he always had more respect for Randy when he used his doctorate to study the topography of the earth rather than plowing it for ganja, so there’s that.

He wonders if Stan has a PhD now, or if he’s a scientist in training. Either way, Kyle always knew he hid a pretty decent brain under all that brawn.

Huffing out a breath, he closes the door of his dad’s SUV with a firm hand.

Now or never, right?

Swiftly, Kyle swiftly crosses the parking lot. He’s not going to lose his nerve. He’s not going to puss out. He…almost turns tail and runs back to his dad’s car, but it’s a moment of weakness. No one could fault him for it.

The be all end all is that Kyle finds himself in the artsy, carpeted hallway of Stan’s apartment building, the dark brown door squished between two different watercolors.

To Kyle, they look like sea glass and smeared blood, respectively.

Taking a deep breath, and bargaining on Stan’s age-old habit of never, ever remembering to lock a single door, Kyle twists the knob.

It gives.

Score one for nostalgia. Kyle stumbles across the threshold, from the horrible jumble of colors into a cleaner, sleeker abode.

He’s in. He’s inside.

There’s Stan, tucked into a black leather couch with his legs on a modern, glass coffee table, feet socked.

There’s Stan, staring at him, gape-mouthed and holding a sweating bottle of fancy craft beer.

There’s Stan, saying, “Kyle. What. The actual fuck?”

**Author's Note:**

> Me, writing the beginning of Remove Before Flight: Lol I haven't written South Park in over ten years, this is a fluke
> 
> Me, three stories later, crying into my laptop: WHYYYYYYYYYY
> 
> (But no, actually, there was a period of my life a decade ago where style was my ride or die. I wanted to see if I could write it again...turns out...no. This has been harder to punch out than either of the other two, and I swear it freakishly resembles the same exact style stories I wrote way back when. Minus the fake dating aspect.


End file.
